Royal Heist (38 page)

“Do you know someone called James Wilcox?”

“No.”

“Philip Simmons?”

Driscoll’s heart was fit to burst through his chest. “No. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I only spoke to the woman once on the phone.” He hesitated, then decided he had said enough.

Wilcox was tipped off fast by Driscoll.

“I warned everyone about that bloody woman,” Wilcox said tightly.

“Yes, I know, but we’ve no problem. She’s dead.”

There was a pause as Wilcox took this in. “How come they came to you?”

“The bitch had my details in her fucking diary, so she must have yours and the Colonel’s. I’ll warn him too.” Driscoll paused. “So far so good, huh?” he said.

“Yeah. Let’s hope it stays that way,” Wilcox replied.

When Detective Sergeant Fuller visited that afternoon, Wilcox denied knowing Sylvia Hewitt, Driscoll, or de Jersey. “Did you know that David Lyons committed suicide?” Wilcox asked the sergeant innocently.

“Yes, we are aware of that. Just one more thing, do you know a Philip Simmons?”

“No. I didn’t mix with Lyons socially, so I didn’t know any of his other clients. All I do know is we all lost a considerable amount in this Internet company we invested in. Maybe he was one of the losers.”

“Via a Mr. Alex Moreno?”

“I believe so. But I think he did a runner. I know we have little hope of recovering any money.”

As he had said he would, Driscoll made a short warning call to de Jersey, who was abrupt and noncommittal. When he replaced the phone, Driscoll was aware of a dull sensation in the pit of his stomach. He was sure that de Jersey had played some part in Miss Hewitt’s demise, but as with Moreno, he hadn’t asked and he didn’t want to know. He was just relieved that she was no longer a problem.

However, both Driscoll and Wilcox needed cash injections. Driscoll decided to put his house on the market, unaware that Wilcox was contemplating the same thing.

Jon Fuller and his P.C. now made the journey to de Jersey’s estate. If Fuller had been impressed by the properties owned by Driscoll and Wilcox, de Jersey’s took his breath away. The patrol car drew up beside the west wing stables. Fuller asked a boy if he could tell them where they would find de Jersey and was pointed to a vast, semicovered arena with a horseshoe-shaped swimming pool for exercising the horses.

De Jersey was watching Royal Flush swimming around the perimeter of the pool. He had seen the patrol car enter the yard and paid it no attention. As the officers approached, he continued to call out instructions. “Keep him going. Give him another two half circles.”

“Good morning, sir.” Fuller showed his card and introduced his companion.

“This is my pride and joy, Royal Flush,” de Jersey said, gesturing to the swimming stallion. “Put your money on him for the Derby,” he advised and gave the officers a charming smile.

He walked with them back to the house, where he told them he had met Sylvia Hewitt twice, once at her brother-in-law’s house and a second time when he had visited her at her apartment in St. John’s Wood.

“Miss Hewitt was found dead in her apartment,” Fuller said.

“My God! When did this happen?” De Jersey stopped in his tracks.

“Two weeks ago. We believe it was suicide, sir.”

“Well, that’s dreadful, but I fail to see how I can be of any help. I didn’t really know her.” He added that he was surprised Sylvia would contemplate suicide. Then he paused. “I don’t know if I should go into this, but her brother-in-law, as you must know, also committed suicide quite recently. The reason I am hesitant to say anything derogatory about Sylvia is that I had a great affection for David and his poor wife.” He paused again. “I believe Sylvia and David had been lovers for some time.” He sighed. “I am deeply sorry this has happened. In some ways I wish I had known her better. The loss of certain investments was deeply disturbing for me, but in comparison . . .”

“Did you ever think of taking legal action?” asked the detective.

“Well, my father always used to say, ‘Never invest in anything you don’t understand,’ and I wish to God I had taken his advice. This chap Moreno ran off with whatever he salvaged out of the mess.”

“Did you ever approach Moreno?”

“Good heavens, no. Sylvia was trying to find him. She wanted me to help, but private detectives can’t be trusted, and I just felt it was best to forgive and forget. David was dead, and that was the end of it as far as I was concerned.”

“And you do not know an Anthony Driscoll or a James Wilcox?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Have you ever met a man called Philip Simmons?”

At this moment Christina appeared in the doorway with a tray of coffee.

“Darling, do come in.” De Jersey rose and made the introductions. She put down the tray and shook their hands. De Jersey handed round the coffee as he explained the reason for the officers’ visit.

Christina sat down, shocked. “Good heavens. How terrible. I must call Helen,” she said.

De Jersey put his arm round her. “Yes, of course, we should.”

She gazed at him a moment, then smiled at the officers. “Excuse me,” she said and left the room.

Outside the study door Christina waited to hear her husband tell the police whether he knew Philip Simmons. “I don’t think I do. Was he one of David’s clients?” she heard him say.

“We’re not sure,” replied Fuller. “It’s just that there are various notes in Miss Hewitt’s diary with regard to this man and, according to the detective in New York, she felt that he was connected to Alex Moreno.”

“I can’t recall meeting someone of that name, but then I do meet a lot of people at the racetracks.”

“Have you been to New York yourself recently?”

“No, I have not.”

Christina remained listening until they began to discuss racing. Then she went slowly up to her bedroom. She could understand why he had lied. He had done something illegal in New York, he had told her that. But how on earth could it be connected to Sylvia Hewitt? She went to the window to see de Jersey ushering the officers out and watched as they walked to their parked patrol car.

A few moments later de Jersey came into the bedroom. “I wasn’t expecting you home for a while,” he said.

Christina watched him. He frightened her.

“How much did you overhear?” he asked.

“Well, I heard them ask you about being in New York.”

“And I was not likely to admit I was there, and you know why,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed.

“But they’ll find out, surely.” She avoided his eyes.

“Why should they? I’ll destroy those passports if you like.”

“I would if I were you, but I don’t understand why all this subterfuge is necessary.”

“I explained it to you.”

“I know you did, but why did Sylvia Hewitt have notes in her diary about this man you went to see?”

“Because, sweetheart, she was trying to trace him to get her own money back. I’ve told you this. In fact, it was David who suggested I use a pseudonym when traveling to buy racehorses. He even got the passports for me. As soon as sellers know my name, they put up the price. I would say the reason she kept on calling here was that she might have found out and wanted to squeeze money out of me. She really was a very unpleasant woman.”

“She’s dead, for God’s sake.”

“I know, and by her own hand. She was not a nice woman at all, carrying on with David behind Helen’s back. Her own sister!”

“Suddenly you’re coming over all moralistic,” she said in disbelief.

“Not really, but she was only concerned about getting her money back. She had probably discovered that she didn’t have a hope in hell of seeing any of it again, and it must have been too much for her.”

“How did she do it?”

“I have no idea. We didn’t get into those kind of details.”

“Did you go and see her, then?”

“What?”

“I said, Did you go and see her after she kept calling?”

“No, I put it off. I had enough to think about—and considering that that son of a bitch David has virtually bankrupted me, I would think you could understand my reasons for not wanting anything to do with her.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Have anything to do with her?”

“Why on earth are you asking me that? I just told you I didn’t go to see her. I don’t want to discuss this any further. It’s finished.” He walked out, slamming the door.

De Jersey was treading on dangerous ground, and now the person he cared most deeply for might also be the most dangerous to him. He was angry with himself for having left the passports to be found, angry that the one area he had felt was secure was now vulnerable. He had to find a way to sort it out quickly and efficiently.

Raymond Marsh, unaware that he was under investigation, had arrived in Rio de Janeiro without a hitch. Almost immediately he had a reaction to something in the climate that gave him blinding headaches and a rash all over his body. His wife and daughter booked into a hotel with him, but he decided he wanted to move on. South America was not to his liking. He called his friend Robbie with instructions on where to send his packing cases. When he was told that cops were swarming around his old house and his face was plastered all over the newspapers and on television, he slammed the phone down. It was imperative to get out of Brazil. The police might have discovered from Robbie where he was. He paced up and down the hotel room, itching and sweating, trying to think where they should go, when his wife walked in with their screaming child.

“She’s got a rash too. It’s the heat.”

Marsh looked at her and grinned. “Let’s get out of here then. Tell you what, why don’t we visit your place?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, sticking a pacifier into the baby’s mouth.

“New Zealand,” he said.

Anything can be bought in Rio, and within one afternoon Raymond Marsh had new passports. At ten in the evening, he, his wife, and his daughter flew out on tickets booked through their illegal credit cards. During the flight he began to feel worse, and by the time they landed he had a high temperature. They moved into the best hotel in Auckland, and a doctor was called. Marsh’s allergy subsided, but the fever and aches persisted. He was diagnosed with a virulent form of shingles. He remained in a darkened room under sedation for two days. He felt so ill that he didn’t even watch TV.

His quick exodus from Rio meant there was no clue as to his present whereabouts. When the detectives traced the poste restante address on his boxes to Rio, they set off with a warrant for his arrest but returned empty-handed.

In London, the headlines now blasted on about the police’s failure to capture Marsh or to trace Philip Simmons. The articles made their way to the hotel where Marsh was staying. By the time he saw the papers, the story was a week old.

Marsh read the coverage with relief. It was believed that he was still at large in Rio. He was amazed at the photographs they had used of him, which had been taken from his packing boxes. Some were in Elvis mode, others showed him in school uniform. He knew he must not use any of the credit-card numbers from the United Kingdom.

Marsh studied himself in the mirror. Since he had been ill he’d not had time to fix his hair, and it was stuck together in unattractive clumps. He went into the bathroom, put his head under the shower, and shampooed it three times to get the grease and old mousse out. It had taken years of practice to style his hair into a teddy boy quiff, but now it was receding badly and hung limply to his chin. He picked up a pair of nail scissors and chopped it short. He was near tears. It wasn’t just his hair he had lost but all his memorabilia. The crates containing his hero’s guitars and his autographed pictures were now in the hands of the Metropolitan Police.

His wife barged in with a dirty nappy and had to sit on the edge of the bath, she was laughing so hard. When she stopped giggling, she wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Christ, Raymond, you don’t half look different!”

“I’ll get a transplant,” he snapped.

Marsh calculated they would have real financial problems soon, but he knew that to contact Philip Simmons was tantamount to suicide. He would have to monitor the papers and lie low. He moved his family into a small apartment in Wellington and applied for a job with a local computer company. It was a far cry from the life he had hoped for, but at least he was free.

Sylvia Hewitt’s funeral took place within days of Lord Westbrook’s. The latter was a more public occasion, with press and photographers lining the streets outside the family estate. His ex-wife, his son and heir, and his two daughters had returned to England for the occasion. The ice-cream company now running the house and grounds allowed them to use the chapel and crypt, and the mourners were old family friends and various distant relatives. Displays of lilies sat on either side of his photograph. The police officers seated at the rear of the tiny chapel looked on with disgust: this man had been a petty criminal and then part of a robbery that still stunned the nation.

Lord Westbrook had dreamed of his son returning to the ancestral seat. The boy stood beside his mother in a gray suit. Neither he nor his mother knew of Westbrook’s dream. More distant relations told the press they were appalled by his actions.

De Jersey was relieved to see the funeral on the news. It meant one major risk was gone, but he would honor his promise. When payday came, Westbrook’s son would receive his father’s cut. Whatever else de Jersey was, he was an honorable man. He had still not seen anything in the papers about Sylvia Hewitt’s “suicide” and hoped to God they had closed the inquiry.

Pamela saw the televised snippet of Westbrook’s funeral and sobbed. She wished she could have been there. She had sent flowers with a card that simply said, “From your lady-in-waiting, with love and fond memories.” She paid for the bouquet in cash.

The police filmed the entire funeral, hoping that people linked to the robbery might show their faces, but no one did. They also examined the flowers. Pamela’s message was obscure, perhaps from a mistress or a lover, though “lady-in-waiting” seemed to refer to the robbery. The florist was contacted and remembered that a bedraggled, red-haired lady with a refined voice and sophisticated manner had placed the order. Unfortunately she had not left an address or contact number. When shown the computer pictures of Pamela from Maureen Stanley’s description, the florist gasped. “Oh, my God, this is the woman wanted for the Crown Jewels robbery. I don’t believe it.” She took another look at the photo fit and shook her head. “No, it wasn’t her. The woman I met was much older.”